Cancer is gone

See that little pink spot on my neck?

Well, that little spot was the only thing still visible from the biopsy that was taken a few weeks ago. The wound healed nicely, and then this past Thursday I had the Mohs surgery on that spot to remove the Squamous cell carcinoma in my neck. The doctor knew just what she was doing. I went into the examination room, where she and her assistant draped me and then gave me dozens of little stingy shots of lidocaine, before she gave me my one and only tissue removal. I was surprised when I saw the cut, thinking it would be a "shave," but it was no such thing. She knew just what tissue was needed, and she drew a picture and then took the following section out of my neck:

She went pretty deep

It really does look like an eye to me. After having taken a look at the images from the biopsy, the surgeon cut deep in the middle (the "pupil", then then took some tissue from the "whites.") It was a painless procedure, once the lidocaine took effect, and then I went back into the main waiting room while the doctor sent the tissue to the lab. 

I had just gotten situated and started reading my book, when someone called my name and said I was done. The lab confirmed that the carcinoma had been successfully excised. I was flabbergasted that it had taken so little time. I then needed to have the wound sewn up, which took considerably longer than the removal. Two assistants worked to get more lidocaine in (which I couldn't feel), and then started up the sewing. Some tugging and yanking. With that much numbing juice running through my neck, it was also a painless procedure. Here is what my neck looks like now:

Stitches galore 

And now here I am, cancer free (the as far as I know anyway), and getting ready to go to breakfast with John in a short while. I went to the coffee shop on the bus yesterday, my first solo trip since the surgery, and I slept quite well last night, with only a little discomfort. But I realize that during the next two weeks I need to give special care to the area, keep it well lubricated with Vaseline, and take it easy. Don't let it get infected, and not try to drive, not wanting to break any of the dissolvable stitches by forgetting that I'm injured. Yes, I could do that easily.

There were a few people in the waiting room with me who were also patients; some it was easy to tell, like the woman with the big white bandage on her nose, but others had their cancers where you couldn't see. I feel very lucky to have had such a good surgeon and her team of assistants, but I am not wanting to go through this again any time soon. However, now that the mystery of how it's done is behind me, I wouldn't be nearly as frightened as I was before.

Once I get back from breakfast with John, my friend Michelle will take me for an afternoon walk somewhere, and we'll chat and feel life getting back to normal. The weather broke, and we had an inch of rain to green up the lawns (meaning more mowing), but it's pleasant and now that we are well into August, I hope we are not going to have any more hot spells.

I hope that the coming week will bring all of us some peace of mind, some good weather with nobody being flooded out, burned up from the heat, or any other uncomfortable situation. It's been a tough time in the history of the world, I'd venture to say, and I'm looking forward to some good news, now that I am cancer free!

August doings

Steve finishing up his Shave Ice treat

 Yesterday, Steve and I walked the entire length of Fairhaven's Boulevard Park, from the coffee shop to the Fairhaven Green and back. The red band in the above picture is Steve's own design on his pack, with no way for me to tone down the color to match the rest of the scenery. But never mind, it has made all the other colors fade into the background a little but doesn't change the bright and beautiful sunshine that we enjoyed. Summer is here and we will get a taste of what the rest of the country has been dealing with. We might even reach the mid-80s today, or by Monday or Tuesday (Gasp!). It's been lovely, actually having had such a mild and comfortable summer (so far anyway). While I have watched the temperatures in the rest of the country climb to levels I could not easily deal with, we have instead been forced to endure having to wear a jacket for most of the day, rather than tank tops and sandals. 

Since I last wrote in here, I received what I consider to be a rather sudden date for the Mohs surgery: this coming Thursday, August 14. It will be a day-long affair, with me and SG arriving at the surgery building at 8:30am, and we are told to expect a long day, possibly as long as eight hours, or maybe even more. This surgery will be performed by Joy Makdisi, the surgeon, on me and several other people, sort of a community of patients. All of us will have a segment of tissue removed from our cancer, and then while it is being evaluated in the lab, other people will have the same procedure done, making all of us in this together. One "shave" at a time, one after another. As soon as the cancer is deemed "gone" for each patient, they will sew the person up and send them on their way. I suspect most people will have several "shaves" before it's considered gone. You have to hope that you will be one of the lucky ones to be finished early.

After the procedure is done, the patient needs to go home and spend one to two weeks doing light movement and nothing too strenuous that might make the stitches come loose. Almost all forms of exercise are to be avoided, except for walking. I hope that several of my usual yoga routines will also be okay, but I will make sure before I try them on for size.

At this point, nobody knows how deep the cancer goes, or how wide the contaminated tissue might extend. By this time next week, however, I'll know so much more about the prognosis and how long before I can get back to living the rest of my life. I am very glad to know it's going to be removed soon. That doesn't mean I am not anxious about the procedure, but I don't have to wonder for weeks whether they can easily remove it or not.

Apparently this procedure is routine, and I keep running into people who have experienced it already. For some, it seems it was rather straightforward, but for others not so much. I won't know which category I'm in until I go through it, but I'm hoping for the best outcome. At first I thought I wouldn't even want to go through it, pretending that the cancer would just recede and quietly go away. But that's not how it works, so here I am getting ready for Thursday's procedure,  and realizing that I am not ready to let it all go just yet. Old age is no fun, but it's superior to the alternative.

I used to think of myself as fearless, but now I realize that's a myth I made up. I am not only frightened by what's happening to me, but I also know that this trajectory of diminishing abilities is my future. It's inevitable, and most of the time I am fine with it, but there are moments when I feel very sad that I have grown so old and am on my way to (dare I say it?) becoming... feeble. It's always a good feeling to wake after a good night's sleep and stride out the door feeling like a million bucks. I still have moments like that, but they are few and far between these days. 

Never mind. I will concentrate on all the good I experience every day: good people, good weather, and wonderful walks. During the five-mile walk yesterday, I enjoyed every moment of it. I don't have to look very far for gratitude.

When I'm grateful for all the blessings, it puts away all the stress about things not in my control. Things like long hours, aging, pollution, scandals... it helps me create perspective by just focusing on being grateful. Take that moment twice a day with yourself. —Darby Stanchfield

It's like taking vitamins, which may or may not make me healthy, but I do it because I believe they help. Taking the time to look up from my own little life and expand my horizons, it always helps. Reading a good book is also helpful, and I can still do that using the low vision setting on my Kindle. Reading right now I am halfway through Barbara Kingsolver's Pulitzer Prize winning book, Demon Copperhead. She writes about Damon (Demon to his friends) who grew up poor and without family in Appalachia. It's very absorbing and incredibly well written, as all her books are. I recommend it.

And the wonderful posts and comments I receive from my virtual family. There are people all over the world who write blogs about their lives, and it certainly gives me a different perspective on my own life. I am part of the community of bloggers who have been doing this for a long time, and as we change and age, we grow and learn from those who are journeying along with us. It's a good time to be alive, and I will take just a teeny moment out of my ruminations to experience gratitude and happy thoughts. Why not? Yes!

Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things, dear friends. Be well.

Waiting for the referral

Me and Lily, taken by Steve

Yesterday, Lily joined Steve and me at the coffee shop. She was wanting to do some grocery shopping at the Farmers' Market and had some time before, which she spent with the two of us. She had her usual latte, while I enjoyed my double Americano, and Steve filled his own coffee cup holder with his usual straight coffee. Then we set out for a walk. It was shortened by Lily's visit, but it was worth it to have her tell some stories about her recent visit with her son, who came up from Guatemala to help celebrate her new status as an American citizen.

I have been more than a little rattled by last week's discovery that the thing on my neck is cancerous and needs to be removed as soon as possible. Then I found out when I tried to see if the referral had been accomplished, that no, it hasn't happened yet because my primary dermatologist was on vacation, had just returned and didn't get around to it yet. I do know that the referral should happen early next week, but I just don't understand why it is taking so long, I found that indeed I will probably see a young female doctor by the name of Joy Makdisi for the procedure. I think it's auspicious that someone named "Joy" will remove the growth. But shouldn't I be first in line?

The pathology report didn't inspire any confidence, either. This is what the report said:

FINAL DIAGNOSIS

SKIN, LEFT NECK, SHAVE:

Squamous cell carcinoma in situ, involving the deep and peripheral tissue edges.

Yikes! I don't like the sound of that. What does it mean that it's in the "deep and peripheral tissue edges"? How deep is deep? and if it's in the peripheral edges, does that mean there is more and that it might be hard to remove it all? I am sending myself into a tizzy, just considering what it all means. And of course, until the Mohs surgery is accomplished, nobody really knows the answers to these questions. I will be so happy to have a date to look forward to, hopefully sometime very soon. But I also realize this is not an optimal time for getting such surgeries scheduled, with so many people on vacation during the summer months. At least I will eventually have the surgery and my insurance should cover most of the costs. Even if I had to pay up front, it would be worth it just to get this taken care of.

In the meantime, I am not going to worry about the Canadian MacuMira eye treatment until this is cleared up. Both are going to be expensive, and I am willing to take care of it all myself, if necessary. I don't trust the insurance companies to be there when I need them. These days everything is complicated.

I guess this is what it means to be an elderly person in her (almost) mid-eighties. Her health not likely to become miraculously better in the future, as our bodies do wear down and out as we use them. I notice in the obituaries there are many people who die of "normal" causes and they are my age or even younger. As for my parents, neither of them lived as long as I already have, and genetics plays a role in our ability to live long and healthy lives. I wonder how long they might have lived if statins and better treatment for high blood pressure had been available to them when they were my age. Oh wait, they never made it into their eighties, or even their seventies! Daddy was 62, and Mama was 69 when they died, fourteen years apart.

Mama had a sibling, my Uncle Joe, who developed melanoma and died from it. He was a veteran and lived with my grandmother until he passed away. I remember that he had a mole on his earlobe; he didn't realize it was cancer, and it spread to his brain. He went into a coma for several weeks, but he did eventually come out of it. Interestingly, after he recovered, he then spoke with a thick German accent, and nobody even knew whether he had ever learned the language! He wasn't very old when he died, and he never married. I remember him still, and I even spent several months staying with Grandma and sleeping in his bed, long after he was gone. I remember Mama telling me he was exceptionally bright and accomplished many things during his life, but all of that is gone now. Nobody alive remembers. These days, I feel a kinship with him, as I try not to succumb to this skin cancer. My thoughts gravitate often to that spot on my neck and each time, I pray for guidance.

 No actual events in most people's lives that will be remembered for long after we die. There are a few in history, such as the ancient Greek philosophers, whose works are still read and revered, and other notable people who still give today's world much to think about. I still read and cherish the poetry of Emily Dickinson, who was in her fifties when she died, but she had written some of the most incredible poems by that time.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And reverie. The reverie alone will do, If bees are few.

So much of the feeling of her her poems lingers long after I have forgotten the words. Years ago I went on a five-day solo backpacking trip, and I spent many hours committing several of her poems to memory. They are still there to be accessed when I need them. I am so glad that I can still read well enough, using my low vision setting on my Kindle, to read and appreciate other great poets today.

Longevity of one's life is not a given, or even something to be desired. There are many who have managed to fulfill their mission here on Earth in a short time, and lay down with a sense of accomplishment, ready to move on to the next adventure. I hope to be one of them, but I won't know if I made it until I, too, am at the end of my life and look back on everything I went through. I also believe that this life is not the end of my consciousness, but it is only a belief. I do believe that love is timeless, and that as I surround myself in love and charity, I will end up having been glad to have been here.

My post is pretty much finished, and yes, John will be here before I know it, ready to whisk me off to breakfast. My dear virtual family are often in my thoughts these days, and you know that means you, too. I am incredibly grateful for you, and for your own long (or short) life. Be well until we meet again, dear friends.